SHADOWS

by Jonathan Nasaw

  "She spoke not a word, but when she left (I can't say how she left, whether she disappeared, or turned back somersaults through the wall—I never saw her—I was weeping into my hands at the time) it was as clear to me what I had to do to atone with God as if she'd given me written instructions. And the penalty for failing to atone was clear to me as well. She hadn't told me about hell, nor described it, nor shown me a vision, but I knew it was waiting for me, and that it was hell.

  "As for how to stay out of it, there was nothing very complicated. I was to read my Bible, and disdain the pleasures of the flesh. No more blood, no more sex. I didn't even think about disobeying. I couldn't begin to, because as soon as I did the spiritual agony would come lapping at my feet, and if I didn't abandon the thought—even thoughts that included sex in the confines of an honorable remarriage—the agony would threaten to wash over me entirely.

  "Within six months I was out of the hospital and back to work. My life was free of joy as well as despair—the only way I could get through it was to stay numb. Every morning, although I knew I was far from mad, I faithfully swallowed whatever combination of mind-numbing, soul-destroying antidepressants and antipsychotics and mood elevators and tranquilizers the quacks and pharmaceutical companies were pushing that year, then showered and shaved and showed up at the office. I guided the affairs of the Whistler trust so efficiently that it has more than doubled during my stewardship—to Jamey's eventual benefit more than mine.

  "As for Jamey, I saw him during term holidays, and we would dine once or twice a month. We weren't particularly intimate, for father and son, but then we never had been, so it came as a complete surprise to me a year or so later when he was arrested for having duped my Bahamian housekeeper into giving him her blood under the guise of treating her for migraine headaches. He freely admitted to having drunk it.

  "My solicitors were able to have the complaint withdrawn, on the grounds that Jamey leave the UK. Those terms he agreed to readily enough, but my terms—that he abstain from drinking blood—he rejected with an oath. I asked him to leave; he stole my watch on his way out.

  "I didn't see him again until last summer. I was in a coma—dying, according to all the quacks. Jamey fed me blood without my consent, just to see if it would do me any good—naturally I'd never told him about my experience with blood. And naturally I recovered. At first he said nothing about still being a drinker—or what he'd done to me. We spent a lovely night talking. He told me all about his life—that's how I knew about the striga—and his new wife and child. The last thing he told me, shortly before dawn, was that he was still a blood drinker, had never stopped being one, and that I was now a drinker again as well. When I'd recovered from the shock I sent him away again with my curses.

  "And I remembered my angel. I tried not to drink again, and failed, largely due to Mrs. Wah's intervention. She brought me her own blood disguised in tomato juice, and after I'd drunk it she climbed into bed with me, and to my shame I was too weak to resist. Every morning for the first month after Jamey revived me I would vow not to drink that night. Surely, I would think, God would not hold this involuntary addiction against me. But every night, just as the need came over me, Mrs. Wah would be there with her blood pulsing in her veins, and I'd be helpless as a drunk in a vat. It was not until I was quite addicted both to her blood and the sex that she told me that her murdered husband had been a blood drinker too. I suppose my addiction must have seemed like some sort of godsend to her, if you'll forgive me the expression.

  "In any event, after a month or so there was no point kidding myself any longer—I had voided my contract with my angel. If I'd had the courage I'd have ended my life then, but I swore that before I died I'd see him dead, the man who'd already interrupted my death, denied me peace in life, and damned me to eternal hell in the process—my son. I began making inquiries—didn't have any notion as to how one goes about having a vampire killed. Couldn't be easy, I knew that from my own example. It was Mrs. Wah who suggested I begin my inquiries among the Romanians."

  This was all somewhat baffling to Aldo—that anyone would rue being a blood drinker. But he didn't give it much energy; he was quite used to learning that other people didn't share his own enthusiasms. After all, even nondrinkers rarely appreciated a good blaze, not to mention a satisfactory garroting. He listened with greater attention when Jonas described his encounter with Selene, concluding with his discovery of Mrs. Wah's body.

  "Did Mrs. Wah have any family left?" was Aldo's first question. "Close friends? Anyone who might send the police nosing around?"

  "A sister in Brighton, I believe, but they weren't particularly close. No friends to my knowledge—the poor dear had quite dedicated herself to my service."

  "We've got some time then. Do you have any samples of her handwriting?"

  "I'll look around her room."

  "Do that before I leave. I'll have a friend of mine run up some docs in her handwriting—letter of resignation dated a few days ago, having-a-wonderful-time cards we can have posted from ever more northerly locales. Now, as to your next most immediate problem. Do you have any blood stored away? Or anyone else you can procure from?"

  The old man shook his head. "No. I'm afraid I hadn't thought that far."

  "I'll make a call for you then. Young woman I've used myself. I'll have her ring you up tomorrow evening. Pay her what she asks for the blood, and if the two of you hit it off, she'll be more than willing to take on some of Mrs. Wah's other, er, duties as well—for a price, of course."

  "Of course," replied Jonas. "And as for yourself ?"

  "Why, I'll be going striga hunting."

  Jonas smiled coldly. "Bring me back her broomstick."

  * * *

  Aldo spent what remained of the night arranging for his new passport. Mr. Yardley had attracted too much attention already, and if his comings and goings grew too frequent or too closely spaced, he might draw more. Besides, Aldo was still shaken from his recent brush with Customs, brief though it had been.

  No, this time he wanted a virgin—a well-aged, well-stamped passport, but one that had never actually been used. That meant a trip all the way across town to Islington, where Manny the Mocker, once the finest forger in all of Romania, now lived in suburban exile behind the walls of a modest cottage intended to deflect the notice of the Inland Revenue. It occurred to Aldo in the cab, however, that he was still looking a little too much like Mr. Yardley. On the other hand he didn't want to look too much like himself either, so he had the cabbie stop off at an all-night chemists on Guilford Street, where he used his credit card (which, it occurred to him gleefully, it looked as if he'd be keeping now) to purchase shaving supplies and barber's scissors along with a bottle of walnut brown hair dye and a coordinated tube of mustache dye.

  Aldo trimmed his hair and eyebrows in the back of the cab. By the time he got to Manny's there was scarcely time to shave off his goatee, apply the dyes to hair, eyebrows, and mustache, and have the forger snap his photo, much less wait around for the passport. They made arrangements to have it messengered over, along with the forged documents in Mrs. Wah's handwriting, as soon as Manny had finished.

  Aldo made it home with only a few minutes to spare before sunrise. After admiring his new look in the bathroom mirror—striking, if not downright handsome—he washed down a handful of sleeping pills with a shot of Stoli, and as he dozed off to sleep fantasizing about Selene struggling beneath him with a pillow pressed tightly against her face, a precious, sleepy, half-smile lifted the newly walnut brown mustache and a drugged snore set it fluttering.

  CHAPTER 11

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  The windows of the shop on the side street in Greenwich Village were whited out behind rusty grilles secured by a permanent-looking padlock, but Selene could still make out the outline of the old gold-leaf lettering, COVENSTEAD BOOKSHOP, CURIOUS AND PARAPHERNALIA.. Her lips formed the words as Moll fit a key into a warped, peeling door; a little drift of paint chips had settled like black snowflak
es under the lip of the doorsill.

  The storefront was dark, the light fixtures stripped from the ceiling, paler patches on the wooden floor and walls where the counter and shelves had rested. Where once a beaded curtain had clacked gently, a hulking metal fire door with a breaker bar now blocked the entrance to the back rooms. Moll had a key for this as well; for all its bulk the heavy door swung open easily, and Selene followed Moll through, returning to the first covenstead she had ever known.

  The inner room was only a little less dark than the storefront. On a nightstand beside a four-poster bed in the corner of the room where the Gypsy fortune-teller's tent had once stood, a small pink-shaded lamp spilled a pool of warm rose light across the faded Persian carpet, silhouetting a nightgowned form sitting up behind gauzy age-yellowed bed curtains.

  A clawed hand drew back the curtains a crack; crooked fingers beckoned stiffly. "Come closer," demanded a querulous old voice. Selene stepped into the light. "It certainly looks like you," allowed the voice grudgingly.

  "Hello, Benny."

  But there was still no welcome in the quavering reply. "Never mind my name. Say your own, first."

  "Selene."

  "And before Selene?"

  "Helen."

  "No!"

  "Helene, then." Mystified, Selene corrected herself. "But only for a day."

  "That's better. Can you kiss me?"

  "Of course."

  "Do so."

  Selene parted the curtains a little farther. It was indeed old Bensozia, her white nightgown and her wispy white hair as yellowed as the bed curtains. She was propped up against a small mountain of pillows and bolsters, under a patchwork quilt she and Andred had sewn together during the Depression. Selene bent to press her lips against the powdery old cheek.

  "No, on the mouth."

  Selene brushed the cracked dry lips with her own; impatiently, the other woman grabbed Selene's face in both hands, her grip surprisingly strong though her fingers were crabbed like twigs, pulled her closer, and kissed her hard upon the lips. Selene inhaled a scent of old face powder and Johnson's baby shampoo as she returned the kiss, closing her eyes and parting her lips slightly, softening them against the crone's insistent pressure.

  Finally Benny let her go. "Selene Weiss," she said softly. "Blessed be."

  "What was that all about?"

  "I had to be sure it was you."

  "As opposed to?"

  "Any number of things. A shade, a wraith, a daimon, a fetch."

  "You can tell from a kiss?"

  "Ghosts cannot kiss; wraiths will not."

  "Even succubi?"

  "Not on the mouth," Benny replied. "But they can lick the black off licorice." With what sounded suspiciously like a cackle, the old woman reached for an unlabeled medicine bottle of antique brown glass on one of the spindle-legged nightstands. Her stiff fingers pried at the cork futilely. Moll stepped forward and took it from her, poured a scant finger of slimy dark green liquid into a gold-rimmed shotglass.

  "Tom Tyffin's Tonic," Benny explained, draining the glass and falling back against the pillows again, the color beginning to rise slightly in her ancient cheeks. "For my arthritis." She smacked her green-flecked lips.

  Selene nodded. " 'Rosemary, Rue, and Life Everlasting Mashed and pulped, and ta'en after fasting…' " She quoted from the formula in the Herbalis.

  Benny nodded approvingly. "That's the exoteric recipe. But I'm glad to see you kept up with your studies."

  "I had some very inspiring teachers," smiled Selene, as Moll walked around the bed, drawing back the heavy curtains. Then she thought of something, and the smile faded. "I'm so sorry about Andred."

  Tears filled the dim old eyes. "I'm very angry with her." On the other side of the bed Moll had taken up a hairbrush from the opposite nightstand and begun working on Benny's sparse, flyaway white hair. "She passed over a year ago, and I still haven't heard a word from her." The old woman turned quaveringly on Moll. "Stop fussing, won't you?"

  "Sorry." Meekly, Moll put down the brush.

  "You're always fussing." Benny took a few deep breaths; her bony chest rose and fell under the yellowed bodice of the old-fashioned nightgown. "Here, you two." She gestured toward the medicine bottle with a clawed hand. "Pour yourselves a finger of friend Tom there—you both look as if you could use a belt. I assure you it tastes every bit as nasty as it looks."

  Selene went first. "Nasty is not the word," she croaked when she had regained feeling in her tongue. She handed the bottle to Moll, who had removed her wrinkled linen jacket and climbed onto the bed. Moll held her nose and took a slug from the mouth of the antique bottle. By the time Selene had removed her own jacket and climbed up onto the bed beside Benny she was feeling mellow and buttery, yet strangely energized. It occurred to her that friend Tom was packing quite a wallop for rosemary, rue, and life-everlasting. "Okay, what else is in that stuff, anyhow?"

  Moll answered as soon as she'd finished gagging. "The esoteric recipe includes paregoric and a syrup of coca leaf extract."

  Selene smacked her lips tentatively. "Oh yes." Definite licorice aftertaste. "Oh my, yes."

  Benny had fallen back against her mountain of pillows and bolsters. She took the bottle back, took another healthy draft, then clapped her hands softly three times. With each clap she seemed to regain a little more vigor, and drop a few more years. "Ladies, a trine."

  Selene and Moll arranged themselves cross-legged at Benny's feet so that the three witches formed an isosceles triangle. Benny closed her eyes again and reached out her hands. "Where gather three, there Goddess be," the eldest witch intoned solemnly. Then she opened her eyes and grabbed Selene's thigh just above the knee, gave it a hard squeeze. "So good to see you, dearie."

  Dearie, thought Selene dreamily. So, that's where Moll and I got that from. Then something occurred to her: "Is this all that's left of the coven? What happened to everybody?"

  Benny sighed. "Don't get me started."

  "It's the goddamn New Age," Moll explained. "Everybody wants to worship the Goddess and cast spells, but nobody wants to memorize the ninety-nine names, or actually milk the toad. 'And why should I hand-write my own Book of Shadows when I can buy one in Waldenbooks?' " she added in a mocking falsetto. " 'What? Orgies? I could catch AIDS.' And now there's always another coven around the corner where the Goddess is soft and fuzzy and, and nurturing, and they meet once a week for a healing circle and make it home in time to watch the eleven o'clock—"

  Benny squeezed Moll's more substantial thigh with her other hand. "Patience, dearie. It's only a cycle." She turned to Selene. "Now, tell me what brings you to visit an old woman in her solitude?"

  Selene started to recount her shrinking faith, her inability to believe in the existence of the Goddess, her search for meaning, for her path…

  "Whoa there, Nellie." Benny touched Selene's lips lightly with a forefinger as dry and crooked as a twig. "A path is a journey—you set out on yours thirty years ago, long before you plucked your first devil's cherry. As for the Goddess, I wouldn't worry about Her—She's certainly not going to worry about you." The old woman cackled, reached out a crooked hand, and tousled Selene's hair—which was far from in need of tousling. Then, abruptly: "What sort of danger are you in?"

  Selene thought about it. "Mortal."

  "Is there another witch involved?"

  "Not so far as I know."

  "And how much time do we have?"

  "There is a little hurry-up involved. My old friend Jame—"

  "Hush—I don't want to be muddled with details. Have you heard of the practice of orgomancy?"

  Selene could feel the color draining from her face. "Heard of it? I was there when Morgana died."

  But to Selene's surprise, Benny only laughed. "Is it true the undertaker couldn't get the smile off her face with a trowel?"

  Selene forced back a smile. "Benny, I won't let you take that chance."

  Another cackle. "First of all, dearie, I've been practicing orgomancy
for over twenty years—if I'd an aneurism it would have burst before now. Secondly, once you've asked a crone for help—"

  Selene interrupted. "I never called you a crone."

  A third cackle. "Don't look so alarmed, dearie. A crone is not a bad thing to be; you'll find out soon enough. Now where was I? Oh yes—once you've asked a crone for aid, the manner of the help is not a matter of your choosing. You must accept what's offered. And thirdly, if the Fates have decreed that it's my time, I can't think of a better way to go."

  "But—"

  "But me no buts, Goody Weiss." Bensozia started to pour herself another shot of tonic, but only a drop of sludge oozed into the shot glass. "Here, make yourself useful," she said, handing the bottle to Selene. "There's a jug in the icebox in the back room. Fill 'er up with ethyl, as we old dykes used to say."

  Selene could hear Benny and Moll conversing in low tones as she made her way to the back room. How strange it seemed after all those years, and yet how familiar. The glass-fronted pharmacist's hutch still stood against the opposite wall, but its shelves and drawers and pigeonholes were mostly empty now. From an old round-shouldered Amana refrigerator standing in the corner that the dildo cabinet had once graced, Selene removed a gallon-sized plastic milk carton full of tonic. With some difficulty, she managed to decant about a cup of the stringy sludge into the narrow-mouthed medicine bottle, occasionally clearing clots the color of oobleck from the neck of the bottle with the tip of her little finger. When she had finished her pinky was stained a deep unhealthy shade of chartreuse that looked fearfully permanent.

  When she returned, Benny was lying naked in the center of the bed, her feet together and her arms at her sides. As sometimes happens with slim older women, the process of aging had turned some sort of corner: on her back, Benny looked almost girlish in the dim light, her breasts and belly flattened by gravity and her pubic hair sparse and pale.